Unforgettable moments flip through the slideshow of my memory: my father’s boyish grin lighting up in spite of himself as he stood, lifejacket up around his ears, the dolphin leaning in and kissing his cheek. Shaking his head in disbelief as our two waiters explained the special six-course meal that the famous French chef at Piaf, Michele Mustiere, had prepared for him, taking into account all of the complicated restrictions of his diet. Seeing him lying back on a canopied lounge on the beach, soaking up the sun and the attentions of an efficient and watchful staff.

My factory-worker dad, father of nine and grandfather of a houseful of rambunctious little ones, had never come close to such luxury. He hadn’t even known that it existed. A shadetree mechanic and consummate fixer of broken things, I found him examining the cooling system in our suite and chatting up the shuttle drivers and motorcycle salesmen we would meet along the way.

Recently diagnosed with mesothelioma, an asbestos-induced cancer with a grim prognosis, he had decided to work with a naturopathic doctor to boost his immune system in an attempt to beat back the cancer. One strategy was a radical change in diet; my meat-and-potatoes Dad was a sudden vegan. Another, according to all that we had read, was to keep living to the fullest, doing things that brought him joy.

“I’m not afraid to die,” he told me not long after his diagnosis. “But as long as I’m here, I’m going to live.”

I wanted to support him in that vow on every level. I had long dreamed of bringing my parents to Mexico, my adopted second country, to share with them a bit of the culture that I had come to love. Now I knew there was no time to waste. I persuaded them to get their passports, and in December, we escaped the dreary Midwest winter for nine precious days on the Yucatan Penninsula.

“Just when you think it can’t get any better… it does,” he mused as we wound our way down the thatch-roofed passageway through the jungle, one beautiful vista opening after another; here a garden with a small waterfall, there a cenote filled with clear spring water. Everything had been developed in this resort with an eye toward protecting the fragile seaside ecosystem; Grand Velas has won numerous awards for its environmental stewardship, and it’s evident as we look around us – especially as we walked along the picture-perfect beach and saw the long expanses of green that extended between Grand Velas and neighboring resorts. An environment all the more appealing for my forest-dwelling folks.

There were moments not made for Kodak on this trip, to be sure. The rental car agency that charged us twice the price for insurance what we’d paid for the online vehicle rental; the frantic hour spent looking for them when I lost them to Merida’s chaotic traffic; the unpleasant surprise when Dad reached out to grab a tree in the jungle walk at Xel Ha – and pulled his hand away to find it crawling with biting ants; his long silences as I drove, catching a farway look in his eyes in the rearview mirror.

“Penny for your thoughts,” I’d say.

“Watch out, you’re about to hit that speed bump,” he’d respond.

Moments like these I ached to know what was on his mind – and more importantly, that he was really on the mend, that the diet and all the supplements and naturopathic treatments were doing the trick, that his low energy was due to his healing process and not his decline.

This was not for us to know, as he gently reminded me time and again. “It’s all in the Lord’s hands,” he would say.

I would take a deep breath and nod.

The first five days of our trip we’d spent on a road trip to Merida, where we stayed three days in the picturesque colonial city and two days at an atmospheric and picturesque restored hacienda, Hacienda Petac. Friday we drove back to Cancun, touring Chichen Itza and a bit of the colonial city of Valladolid along the way. We spent the night at the JW Marriott in the Zona Hotelera, spending a relaxed morning on the beach before heading down to Grand Velas on the Riviera Maya – named by Conde Nast and AAA as one of the world’s finest hotels. We had saved the best for last.

Saturday afternoon we arrived at Grand Velas, driving over a moat and through a gateway in the vast expanse of white stone that walled off this exclusive compound. “Welcome home,” said the young man with the clipboard, and we crossed another blue waterway onto a narrow lane that wound through the jungle. We found our way to the elegant thatch-roofed lobby. Our car was whisked away and our personal butler, Aldo, saw us to our spacious picture-perfect Zen Suite, with a giant jacuzzi and French doors that opened out onto the room and a patio that opened out onto a water garden complete with bougainvillea and a lilac-colored water lily. Beyond the tiny garden extended the jungle; beyond that, the mangrove forest, and beyond that, the beach and the brilliant blue Caribbean.

All this beauty was hard to leave behind, but dinner at Frida’s, one of the resort’s seven award-winning restaurants, awaited; named for the iconic Frida Kahlo, whose portrait brightens up the entry with an earthy radiance, the decor, like the menu, presents Mexican traditions with a fresh and modern twist. A classically dressed Mexican singer and guitarist serenaded us with romantic ballads as we dined. To my delight, salmon al pastor was on the menu. How I’d longed to share one of my onetime Mexican favorites – tacos al pastor, with its succulent pork marinated in the juices of a pineapple and turned on a rotisserie in front of the fire. Now, since an occasional serving of fish was allowed in the second phase of his diet, I could share the essence of this typical taste treat with him. He loved it almost as much as I did.

Day Two began early with an hour’s drive south to Tulum, with its ancient pyramids on the coast. The stark white limestone stood out against the brilliant blue sky and the multihued turquoise and cerulean waters, and he pronounced the view worth the walk – a circuit that a year ago he could have breezed through before breakfast had become a rigorous workout, but one he completed with good cheer.

Dinner found us at the unforgettable Piaf, named for the tiny French singer with a voice that conquered hearts the world over. “Think of us, not as your waiters, but as your tour guides on this culinary adventure,” said Adolfo, one of two young men who meticulously attended us, as he handed Dad a damp cloth to wipe his hands before commencing a procession of works of culinary art, beginning with a salad of mixed lettuces and flower petals accompanied with a red wine sorbet and a quail egg.

The dishes were dismayingly tiny, to my Dad’s way of thinking, but I promised he would not go hungry. Six courses later, Chef Mustiere himself stood before us and explained the way he’d prepared our dessert himself – a strawberry savayón, a confection sweetened with port wine, alcohol evaporated off, and topped with a golden-brown merengue – all, apparently, on my Dad’s diet. Dad nodded his appreciation to the white-garbed gentleman – “It’s all just great,” he said, and posed sheepishly for a few photos.

“Can I ask for seconds?” he wanted to know. But the chef was already gone.

Monday was the exciting climax of our Riviera Maya adventure, with a dolphin swim scheduled at Xel-Ha, one of several nature-oriented theme parks along the coast. Irasema was our guide, taking us on a walk that led through the jungle and past all manner of means to entertain ourselves in the aquatic wonderland of the Yucatan: cenotes where you could dive in, enter a cave and emerge downstream on the shore of an inlet; ropes you could swing on like a modern-day Tarzan; a cliff you could dive off of into the deep blue waters below; and a “lazy river” that you could lie on an inner tube and wind your way through the park for nearly an hour.

Dad’s a country boy who grew up on the river, and just last summer, I’d have been struggling to keep up with him. But these days his circulation was not what it used to be, and he was afraid of catching a chill, so we walked along the path and wistfully watched others splashing joyfully along the way.

Nonetheless, come 1:30, we found ourselves lined up for the orientation with the dolphin trainer. “Prepare yourselves for the experience of a lifetime,” the excited young man advised us. Dad looked dubious and fiddled with his lifejacket. Mom looked tiny in her child-sized jacket. We lined up with the three young girls who were assigned to our group – Sophie, Zoey and Phoebe, aged from 7 to 11 – and followed our guide to the dock.

“It looks cold!” said Dad.

“It’s going to be an adventure!” said Mom.

Both of them were right.

Our dolphin was named for Hunahpu, one of the twin heroes whose stories were told in the ancient Mayan text the Popol Vuh. Like his namesake, a feisty soccer player, our Hunahpu was a playful fellow indeed, flirting and kissing and splashing and dancing in turn with each of us. As gentle as he seemed, we also had a glimpse of his strength when we formed a circle and he swam rapidly around and around us, surrounding us in a powerful wave that nearly knocked us over.

Dad’s tense face relaxed into a smile as the dolphin performed his antics, and he seemed to have all but forgotten the cold by the climax – the dolphin push. “No, no, no, I think that’s a little too much,” he said as I repeated to him the procedure outlined by the trainers. Two dolphins would place their noses at the base of each foot and push him rapidly through the water, eventually lifting him upright as if he were skiing.

“You love skiing, Dad – remember?” I cajoled him. “And this is easier – the dolphins do all the work!”

Finally, he consented. One of the girls and I went first to show him how it was done – and it was exhilarating to feel the two shiny noses planted on the soles of my feet, and my body lifting from the force of forward movement. I turned to see Dad preparing for his turn, hoping that I’d been right, and that it wouldn’t be too much for him.

I needn’t have worried. The same Dad who’d taught me to ski, coaxing me through my fear bit by bit to my legs from the cockpit of his beloved boat, took to the dolphin push like a champ, nearly rising to a full stand before taking the plunge. He emerged grinning from ear to ear.

“That was something,” he said.

But Dad is a man not given to idle talk, and I wasn’t sure if I’d hit the mark with all of this activity. Was he enjoying it all – or just humoring me? Would he have preferred to just lounge in our suite and surf the massive flat-screen TV?

It wasn’t until the day after we returned that I got my answer. I tuned in as I heard him relate the whole tale to his friends and brothers on the phone.

“You just had to see it to believe it,” he’d say. “…and there were these chefs…. and we had a butler… and they treat you like a king… and the dolphin kissed us, and we kissed the dolphins.”

“And me, an old boy from Iron County, Missouri. It was just more than I could have imagined.”

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The sound of running spring water and the night noises of the jungle surround me, the toil and trouble of the city far behind.

This long-anticipated journey with my parents – their first to Mexico, and the first stamp on their brand-new passports – had gotten off to an admittedly bumpy start, what with a raucus all-night party in our hotel on the first night, getting lost in the chaos of the city’s Centro Historico, a virulent case of bronchitis for their driver and guide – yours truly – and too many other complications to mention. Had I made a mistake? My ailing father was exhausted – and this trip had been planned as a healing retreat for him.

But as we passed through the colorful towns on the outskirts of Merida and entered the ornate iron gate into the shady front courtyard of Hacienda Petac, I felt the tension dissolve. Marlene, one of more than a dozen Mayan women who attended to our every need during our stay, materialized from one of the three graceful arches of the hacienda with a traditionally embroidered dress, a beautiful smile and a tray of tempting red drinks.

My heart sank – I was sure they coudn’t be on my father’s diet. They almost certainly had sugar in them, and would be another disappointment. But there was Colleen, greeting us with a hug and a rundown of the ingredients: hibiscus tea and orange juice. Pure, simple and delicious. Dad reached for it and downed it, delighted.

It was the first surprise of many that were to unfold in the three days ahead. The two of them shook their heads in amazement as Colleen, the hacienda’s manager, led them on a brief tour of the property and to their choice of rooms, each of them ample and beautiful spaces, filled with atmosphere and lovingly decorated with exquisite fresh flower arrangements everywhere – from the beds to the sinks to the floors to the tiny pockets at front of the bathrobes.

The hacienda itself was a page out of the past, with its graceful arches, leather-backed chairs, lush gardens, antique brick oven and vintage tile floors. The sound of running water that served as a calming backdrop came from a fountain made of a giant chimney. Colleen explained a bit of the history here as my parents admired the crystal spring water falling into the pool below the chimney; this had been a hennequin plantation, and this oven had been used to fuel the fires that processed the hennequin, or sisal, for rope that made so many fortunes in this corner of the world until the rise of the plastics industry rendered it obsolete.

The hacienda had operated at reduced capacity until the ’70s, and lay in ruins for several decades until Houstonians Dev and Chuck Stern discovered its fallen walls and decade columns and envisioned what it could be. Together, and with the help of a Mexican architect and construction crew, they brought it back to glorious life.

“Just amazing,” said Dad.

“It’s just too beautiful to believe,” said Mom.

The death sentence handed down by my fathers’ doctors months ago at the cancer center far behind, they leaned back, looked into each others’ eyes and smiled. It seemed that anything was possible.

A cacaphony of bird calls surrounded us as the sun began to descend, and my parents got settled in their picture-perfect suite as the Mayan ladies prepared a delicious vegan guacamole to enjoy on the terrace until dinner. My parents sampled it and relaxed as the sun went down, rejoicing in their good fortune.

“Is everything ok?” Colleen dropped by to find out.

“More than ok,” said Dad. “I think you’ve got yourself a little piece of Eden here on Earth.”

***

Back in the classic talavera-tiled Mexican kitchen, a crew of Mayan women, immaculate in their white embroidered huipiles, bustled about preparing dinner. Here again, the staff did not disappoint: a vegan version of tortilla soup, followed by a Yucatecan favorite, pok chuk. Usually made with pork, Colleen had come up with an ingenious substitute – roasted shitake mushrooms, swathed in a savory chiltomate sauce, sprinkled with roasted red onions and wrapped in warm, fresh corn tortillas straight from the comal.

My father kept shaking his head in disbelief. “I’ve never seen anything like it,” he said.

That night, the Mayan ladies led them through the gardens down a candle-lined walkway to the spa to soak in the jacuzzi, two childhood sweethearts who had never tired of each other.

The next day was one surprise after another, beginning with breakfast by the pool, vegan huevos rancheros on a flower-bedecked table.

My father had the first pedicure of his life, and was a bit taken aback by it all but delighted to find out how good it felt.

That was followed by a sumptuous vegetable soup and a dreamy massage under the magical hands of Mayan masseuse Maryeli. Then the evening commenced with a command performance by Los Tres Yucatecos, one of the most beloved trova trios on the Yucatan Peninsula all for the three of us.

Melodies and harmonies of regional and national favorites echoed from the ancient stones and classic arches as I quietly translated bits and pieces of romantic ballads for my parents.

Dinner was a spread fit for a king: a flaky, moist filleted sea bass served with roast vegetables and a dessert of baked apples stuffed with maple-drizzled apple, spice and nut filling. For my father, denied a season of desserts, it was heaven. His diet forbade sugar but allowed an occasional low-fructose natural sweetener, like maple, and Colleen had taken it and run with it.

The next day, sadly, was our last. Not to let a moment escape, Colleen learned that my mother is an avid birder and lined us up with an excellent bilingual birding guide, Miguel Mendez, who brought the jungle to life for us. His uncanny birdcalls brought the avian life to us and his sharp eye helped us distinguish them from the branches and leaves.

After another generous breakfast, it was finally time to head off to Chichen Itza and the Caribbean coast – Cancun and the Riviera Maya beckoned. But it was with reluctance that we bade our farewells to each of the lovely faces that had become so familiar. Hacienda Petac had made its mark on us all – and one that we would never forget.

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TEOPANTLI KALPULLI, Jalisco, Mexico – I live at the corner of Earth and Fire streets, around the corner from a pyramid. I wake each morning to the crowing of roosters and the lowing of cattle. On Sundays I join my neighbors in kneeling and entering the womb of my mother in the form of a temezcal, the sacred indigenous sweat lodge ceremony, to sing and pray and to burn away the impurities of body and spirit.

I’ve been here for a little over a month, and the time has come to answer the question of my friend Ruhksana, whose voice came to me over a great distance when I announced my decision to move here.

Why Mexico? She wanted to know. After traveling for a year the length of Latin America, why did you choose to settle there? There are ecovillages everywhere. Why did you choose that one?

The question is a big one, and the answer is a forked river of tributaries that have carved their way through the landscape of my life all these many years. I will forge my way up one of those streams and see where it takes us.

My relationship with this particular piece of land began a little over a year ago, at the beginning of my journey through Latin America, reporting on sustainability initiatives for The Esperanza Project. I began my project in Mexico City with members of the Vision Council and the Rainbow Peace Caravan, a loosely interwoven band of activists, performers, permaculturists and visionaries who have waged a colorful, creative and loving battle for a better world throughout the hemisphere – and in some cases, throughout the world – for nearly two decades.

This network inspired, informed, and in some ways guided my journey, and one of the nodes on that network was here at Teopantli Kalpulli, whose name means “village of the sacred standard”. In the midst of my whirlwind of Guadalajara interviews, I spent half a day here with Levi Rios, a young architect and permaculturist who grew up here and serves as a sort of spokesman for the community.

I was impressed with what I saw: Mexico’s oldest intentional community, located here on a piece of dry and overgrazed farmland 18 years ago, nurtured into a shady and compact village with a bakery, a school, a house of worship, a huge garden and a cluster of temezcals, where sweat lodge ceremonies drawing people from around the region were conducted periodically.

The community was founded by a group of spiritual seekers, practitioners of yoga and vegetarianism who sought a simple life, close to the land. Soon, as Levi explains it, they began to realize that their own indigenous traditions held a wisdom as deep and as powerful as those that had been carried over from the East, and they began reaching out to teachers of those traditions.

Those inquiries brought to the Kalpulli the first calihuey – the house of worship of the Huichol or Wixarika people. It also brought indigenous leaders from the north, Lakota and Navajo medicine men, carriers of traditions that some say originated here in Mexico – the Sun Dance and the temezcal – but were fiercely repressed by the Spanish conquest. Instead of disappearing, these traditions were carried north and kept alive by indigenous groups throughout the States. In 1983, Tigre Perez, a Chicano activist from Laredo descended from Purepecha Indians from Michoacan, completed the cycle. Perez had studied with Lakota medicine men and Sun Dancers and came to the Kalpulli in 1983, shortly after its founding. It was here that Perez first brought his Kanto de la Tierra, song of the earth, back to its ancestral home.

That tradition continues alive today. And although I didn’t know it at the time, it was that energy that called me back here.

(to be continued….)

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Outside in the darkness, up in the hills not far from here, a chorus of coyotes is greeting the coming of the dawn. How appropriate, I think with a smile. Here in Huehuecoyotl, place of the old, old coyote, I’ve just bid farewell to the greatest coyote of all, Subcoyote Alberto Ruz Buenfil, who is letting me use his home as a base for a few days. Now it’s his time to head into Mexico City, where he is taking the lessons of the Rainbow Caravan for Peace into the barrios of that other place of coyotes, Coyoacán.

I’ve come to Huehuecoyotl to meet his family and some of the people who form this core group of world-changers. I’ve come to break bread, share stories, and glean advice for the journey ahead. Alberto has been in a whirlwind of activity since I arrived – he’s playing a lead role in a film about Fellini’s spiritual journey through Mexico, and the ghost-spirit of the great Italian filmmaker was just here to supervise from another dimension the shooting of some scenes; longtime friend Jose Arguelles, author and visionary, just spent some time here. During my two days here he’s just finished another book and sent it out to the reviewers, underwent a root canal and many hours of community meetings and obligations, and bid farewell to his daughter who is on her way back to Spain; now he’s preparing for a thousand-drum salute and fundraiser for the people of Haiti and a visit from Bolivian President Evo Morales, but still he took time to show me around, orient me to the solar shower and the composting toilet, share photos and reminisce about the incredible 13-year nomadic ecovillage whose trail I now follow, from Mexico to Patagonia.

An old legend tells of a time when the Earth is in crisis, and life itself is in danger. In these times, the legend goes, a new type of warrior will arise: a tribe of all races, creeds and nationalities who will be known by the universal symbol of the rainbow, and driven by love, their mission will be to save the planet from extinction.

So writes Alberto in his book, “Los Guerreros del Arcoiris.” (Rainbow Nation Without Borders-Bear & Company publishers)-Alberto has dedicated his life to nurturing this tribe, leading the Rainbow Caravan of Peace on an epic journey through Mexico, Central and South America. This nomadic ecovillage traveled from country to country, led by Alberto’s old schoolbus, La Mazorca, colorfully painted to resemble the iconic ear of corn. The ever-changing tribe sought to connect groups active in resistance to the destructive corporate model. They set up camp in jungles and mountains, in indigenous villages and urban ghettos, sharing music, theater and seeds of practical eco-wisdom: green building techniques, simple alternative technologies, natural healing techniques and more. At the same time, they gathered up bits of local lore and wisdom and connected the disparate groups into a hemispheric network. In August of 2009, the tribe finally disbanded, each dispersing to different parts of the continent to continue the consuming work of social change.

Alberto returned to Huehuecoyotl, the picturesque ecovillage established in 1982 in the mountains near Tepoztlan by Alberto and his community of rainbow warriors. He is letting me use his home as a base for a few days as I organize myself for the next phase of my journey. The beautiful adobe-brick home is filled with light from the arching windows that look out upon the grassy valley below; out the front door, past a tall green row of fragrant hoja santa plants, limestone cliffs tower protectively beyond the beautiful home of his son Odin, a musician and one of Mexico’s leading permaculture practitioners.

I will see Alberto once again before I go, when he hosts Bolivian President Evo Morales for a brief visit to the city on Sunday. Meanwhile, here is a short interview I did with him recently, at his office in the Casa de Cultura Reyes Heroles in Coyoacán. His warning comes as a coyote howl in the fading moonlight.

“Like the Mayan Zapatistas said, we have had a long time to dream. Now is the time to wake up. Because any dream we don’t manifest becomes a nightmare, made by somebody else.”

To read about them, please visit Guerreros de Guadalajara, a bilingual entry in my Flickr account.

La Minerva, warrior woman of old and symbol of modern-day Guadalajara, photo courtesy of TheLittleTx, Flickr Creative Commons.

As is the case in many big cities, one of the best things about Guadalajara is what lies outside its boundaries. That’s the case with two colonial villages just outside the city limits, Tlaquepaque and Tonalá.

Tlaquepaque is the more carefully groomed, tourist-brochure version of the colonial village – and it’s delightful, with its nightly serenades by mariachis, streets that were made for strolling and lushly landscaped courtyards. Tonalá, on the other hand, is still a little rough around the edges, with an outdoor market where you can still get a hearty meal of steak, chicken or fish in the market for about $2.50, or pick out your fresh produce and a cut of meat to go with it, all while watching the children run and play in the plaza next door.

Tonalá is a destination for shoppers of bargain artenanía, which ranges from kitchy Aztec calendars and frog-shaped ceramics to sophisticated creations from some first-rate artists. Here’s a little peek.

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My friend Alicia, like me, struggles to remember to bring the cloth shopping bags when she goes to the supermarket. This day, she remembered. Here’s a little reminder she likes to keep handy:

“It’s not enough to be biodegradeable; it’s necessary to be bioAGREEABLE.”

I liked the way this clever slogan captured one of the most important principles of sustainability: “Reduce, Reuse, Recycle.” In that order.

Carlos with his collection of miniature bicycles and a photo of his father, an avid bicyclist.

This intrepid group of biking photographers is dedicated to promoting biking in a variety of ways. Besides their weekly outings, which traverse a variety of rural terrains around Guadalajara and further afield, they’ve organized get-out-the-vote campaigns, children’s outings, first aid workshops, bicycle repair workshops, and a fundraiser for Haiti – all aboard the seat of a bicycle.

(Haiti Benefit Ride – Photos by Carlos Ibarra)

Founded by Carlos and other local photographers about two years ago, the group has grown to include non-photographers, as well, and works to initiate beginners into the biker’s life.

“It doesn’t matter if you’re a beginner, or a child, or even if you’ve never been on a bicycle,” Ibarra said. “The idea is to get out there and start pedaling, and we want to help with that. We’ve even had some riders who want to go faster, and they’ve gone on to form their own groups because we’re too slow – that’s ok. There’s room for everybody.”

That said, the group does some pretty heavy trekking, by a beginner’s standards. A recent fundraising ride for Haiti went 100 kilometers. And the off-trail mountain biking in Jalisco’s rugged countryside can be a challenge, especially when a storm comes up – as it did on a recent campout in Juan Rulfo country, from San Gabriel to Tapalpa.

“It was cool,” Ibarra enthused, showing photographs of dripping, smiling bikers. “It was an adventure.”

And indeed, this must be the most documented biking group of all time, with as many photographers as there are among its ranks. Here’s a slide show of the highlights from the group’s last two years.

Create your own video slideshow at animoto.com.

The group provides plenty of fun for the younger set, as well. A recent bicycle fiesta for the children, neices, nephews and young friends of Camara Rodante featured piñatas in the shape of cars.

“We were playing a little with the idea: Get rid of the cars!” said Ibarra, chuckling. “que no son muchos. It was something symbolic, and the kids loved it. Others didn’t want to because they liked the little car. But we were reinforcing the idea of using the bike – that it’s good for your health, that it doesn’t pollute, that you can move yourself quickly and easily.”

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Matter of fact, you can ride with a herd of cyclists pretty much any night of the week – just pick your flavor. “Al Teatro en Bici” (To the Theater by Bicycle”) is one of a seemingly endless number of bicycle-oriented initiatives in Guadalajara. There’s Camera Rodante, a hard-riding group of biking photographers. There’s GDL en Bici, a group of young professionals dedicated to reclaiming the streets for all commuters, not just cars. Their nocturnal rides, each one with a theme and costumed riders, have drawn upwards of 4,000 participants.

Tuesday I got a taste of the Guadalajara bicycle explosion, as well as why it may have evolved. Guadalajara is a city that has evolved, like most U.S. cities, around the automobile, and public transit is somewhat disorganized. A morning taxi ride to Tonalá, a village on the southern outskirts, took me 15 minutes; the bus ride back, an hour and a half. It took longer than that to figure out how to take the bus back to Tonalá.

And that’s not even mentioning the aggressive stance a pedestrian must take in order to negotiate the glorietas, traffic circles where a seemingly endless churning mass of vehicles whirl past.

Little wonder, then, in a city where many people don’t have cars, that frustrated commuters turned to bicycles, then teamed up to find safety in numbers. It couldn’t have been easy, however; in a city where just a few years ago, bicycles were seen primarily as a vehicle for street vendors and poor people.

On Tuesday, the first ride after the holidays, hundreds milled about with their bicycles in front of Punto del Arte, a classy cafe in the Centro. Suddenly a shout rang out – “Ya vamos!” followed by the voice of Aretha Franklin blaring from the loudspeakers attached to the lead bicycle.

“What you want, baby, I got it… What you need, you know I got it. All I’m askin’ for is a little respect…”

I don’t know about the impatient drivers who waited as the wheeled hordes streamed through the red lights, but the message wasn’t lost on me.

The eclectic soundtrack weaved from Rolling Stones to Caifanes, from Lynyrd Skynyrd to Café Tacuba to Guns ‘N Roses, and the elation was so high you could feel it bouncing from the Beaux Arts decor in the old city streets. We plied those streets for about an hour before ending up at the spectacular neoclassical Teatro Degollado, where we piled in to see a free showing of ZaikoCirco, a surrealistic international troupe of circus performers who, of course, supported the effort with bicycles in their act.

All in all, a phenomenal performance – beginning with the commute.

I’m not a natural-born runner; my body resists it in every way. But I took up the hobby last year, realizing that if I were going to stay fit on the road, I’d need to rely on means that don’t include going to a gym. Besides, running doubles as an aerobic form of sightseeing – albeit without the camera, the only thing I regretted about today’s run.

(From Friday’s walk: One of several fountains on Amsterdam Street)

I headed straight for Calle Amsterdam, a verdant loop through the heart of La Condesa with a tree-lined path in the center. Formerly called Calle Hipódromo, the loop is what remains of the old Condesa racetrack. Now laced with fountains and gardens and lined with colorful cafés and boutiques among the classic art-deco architecture, it bears no semblance to a racetrack – except for the presence of the other joggers.

The high point was Parque México, an enormous stretch of greenery filled with children learning to rollerblade, boys kicking a soccer ball, tiny dogs in colorful sweaters and their attentive owners, elders perusing newspapers, youngsters listening to MP3 players and families pedaling a four-seated bicycle contraption for rent in the plaza.

Smells of roasting corn, savory pork tacos and fresh flowers filled the rain-washed air. A gentleman sat in front of a booth surrounded by small tables and filled with wooden objects and painting supplies; for $3 you could buy a small animal or for $6 a little wooden jewelry box, and you could paint it however you liked.

Further along I found Mejor en Bici (Better on a Bike), a nonprofit group that provides free bicycles for “rent” in several parks around the city. All you have to do is leave your ID and a 200-peso note, and you can take the bike for a spin.

I don’t know whether it was because of the altitude (Mexico City is about a mile and a half higher than Houston!) or that I’m out of shape after three weeks of huddling in the cold, or simply because there was so much to see, but it was a run-walk type of run. At any rate, it felt great to unclench my huddled shoulders and feel the sun on my skin again.